


Mind the Ghosts

by ParadifeLoft



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Half-Sibling Incest (as subtext), Identity Issues, M/M, Politics, Uncle/Nephew Incest, finally paying my debt for thinking up this ship by writing fic for it, it's Lake Mithrim and Feanor is dead and everything is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new King of the Ñoldor allows Curufinwe a private visit to his quarters - suspicious enough for what political entanglements it might imply, not even to mention the truth of their arrangement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind the Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> I hope all my fellow degenerates who I've dragged into shipping this with me are pleased ;) (In particular, THANK YOU FOR PRODDING ME, HEREFF <3)

Ñolofinwe sat at his desk when Curufinwe was shown in - gracefully to surface eyes but suspicious to any knowing ones - to one of the more outward of his personal quarters. His guards, almost certainly, were loathe to let any follower of the Feanorian host breach their king's inner sanctum; how much more damning their thoughts must have been for the one named (though rarely in any company) _Atarinke_ , arriving with some private business yet unstated to ease any fears?

Curufinwe only acknowledged them with a brief nod; barely facing them but with his head turned slightly askew, gaze bringing _him_ to their attention rather than them to his, from the corners of his eyes like the corners of his mouth, just slightly turned up. And then Ñolofinwe looked from the papers he held the point of his quill to, dismissing them with another nod.

The tent flaps fell closed behind them with a heavy sound, thick embroidered brocade curtains, and were still.

The brocade draped over his uncle's shoulders had the air almost of shrouding darkness, weight that had little to do with its material and more to do with the set of his back beneath it, the trappings of position around it. Hands and forearms, thin as all his people's, emerged from wide belled sleeves to rest calm on the desk; his quill he laid in its carved wooden holder.

"Ñolfin," Curufinwe murmured, stepping close enough to the desk that they might have been able to touch if he reached over. His uncle's name in the form of the local grey elves, slightly moulded in the quality of the stop to resemble their native Quenya; and even its original - _finwe_ lopped away, truncated by phonological custom while its newer prefix-as-title had been swept away completely.

He reached for the seal of office lying on the desk to his left, bringing it into his hands and turning it over, observing the grooves where the wax would fill for lack of any other sanctuary, with half-lidded eyes and the air of a mild, boredom-curated aimless curiosity. He imagined this was rather what Ñolofinwe's study must have looked like in the palace, his grandfather's palace in Tirion, where Ñolofinwe had undertaken the rule and the trappings of kingship so deftly; where his eldest brother had so tirelessly worked as diplomat, the cunning politician claiming to desire only harmony, and making sure _harmony_ was such that it came out in favour of the allies of the house of Feanáro.

Of course, Maitimo was gone now. Like so many other things.

Ñolofinwe raised an eyebrow at him, still seated in his chair; even so, their difference in stature was not prodigious. "Atarinke," he replied, slow, quieter than his normal tone but with no loss of its gravity.

He stood, then. "What do you wish for now?" he continued, almost sardonic, if such was a mood that could be affected in any sort of convincing manner in these times. Cupping his hands between his sleeves, he stepped around the desk, until he was level with Curufinwe, forced to turn sideways rather than parallel. Though Curufinwe placed the seal back before doing so.

"Are you going to ask for _your_ petitioners to receive my favour in their dispute with my people over custody of certain supplies carried over on the ships? Or for a greater allotment of building supplies in exchange for the knowledge you've bartered from the Sindar?"

Curufinwe looked up at the bridge of his uncle's nose, with a look of innocence on his face indicative of one who had knowingly played at it, rarely experienced it. "Only what we deserve as fair recompense for our efforts and the quality of what we've produced," he answered, in a shift, sudden and disorienting, to an imperious manner, a sharp glint in his eye.

"Fair recompense," Ñolofinwe repeated. There was no amusement in his tone. He put a hand up to one of the lapels of Curufinwe's collar, thumb brushing over the fold in the fabric and the inner cloth, the ghost of a touch to his collarbone beneath a second layer. Their mouths meeting a moment later, was all the force and promise of violence that lay sheathed while they exchanged words.

From the grip on his collar, Ñolofinwe moved swiftly down the clasps of Curufinwe's outermost robe, unfastening with none of the gentleness that should be applied to such delicate metalwork, hand pressing firm and heavy to Curufinwe's chest and another at the back of his neck. Ñolofinwe's robe had no such clasps, just a single chain at his collar, and beautiful though the cloth was, Curufinwe felt no pang of impropriety letting it fall crumpled to the floor when he shrugged it from his uncle's shoulders.

From the outer robe it was only a small distance to cross, to fist his fingers into Ñolofinwe's mass of curls and interwoven braids, tightening enough to pull. "Mannerless and entitled, just as you have always been," he near growled in response, just a breath away from Curufinwe's mouth. Curufinwe had resolved in this not to moan so easily, not to let the barest note of sound from his throat, but his breathing came heavily at least - and startled-sharp when Ñolofinwe drove him suddenly back against the chest of drawers to the side of the chamber.

He did not act for a moment, as Ñolofinwe shifted to shove a thigh between his legs, bite sharply at the side of his neck; a dizzying pleasure momentarily blinding other thoughts from his mind like a too-intense light, the din of his grandfather's palace during a festival day. But Curufinwe breathed, grabbed hold of all that noise and shoved it away with an act of will, to regain his intentions again - with one hand against Ñolofinwe's chest and the other still in his hair, he _pushed_ , and _pulled_ \- and forced him around, his own back against the solid carven wood, and Curufinwe slipped out from beneath him to stand in front. His nails dug into the small of Ñolofinwe's back, through still several layers of cloth (status-marker, or avoiding the cold? or both? he wondered with a slight smirk), and he leaned into him, chest pressed to chest, legs eager to be intertwined, head tilted up to fix his opponent here with an enticing challenge.

"Entitled to what is mine by birthright," Curufinwe corrected. It was easy to play arrogant and self-assured, even now; perhaps especially now, when all he'd rebuilt of himself was this outer shell, filled with nothing but void… perhaps what he played at here, could be used to fill himself anew, perhaps he had died of a form to be reborn as that which was more needed…

He stroked a few fingers up and then back down Ñolofinwe's back, eyes glinting, lips slightly parted. What weakness, he could see, if Ñolofinwe could be so taken in and undone by this spectre, his own loathing and desire mingled (another jewel to be forged, but this one for ruin rather than creation).

And so with the look he received, the anger and fury at the knowledge that this was merely _allowed_ , not _taken_ , but wishfulness enough to pretend at the latter and all the besting it implied nonetheless, Curufinwe knelt, keeping his gaze fixed to Ñolofinwe's. Of course the king was astute enough to read the smirk in his eyes, when by necessity it disappeared from his mouth, until finally he broke the contact, head tilting back as he panted roughly into the still, silent air.

His fingers clenched at the flat wall of the drawer chest, open and closed, seeking the purchase of something to curl around and hold tight to, but the wood was unyielding, and he did not find what he sought.

"Curufinwe," he gasped out, finally, syllables stunted, vowels made in breath but not sound. _Curufinwe_.


End file.
